


When Nightmares Lead

by imma_redshirt



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder, Blood, But also, Dead Characters, F/M, Happy Ending, Murder, One Shot Collection, Sad Ending, imelda is not a big ernesto fan, sometimes?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-05-23 04:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: A series of nightmares compels Imelda to search for Héctor in Mexico City, and bring him home.But in a universe where multiple outcomes can happen, their story doesn't always end happily.





	1. Three Shots

**Author's Note:**

> A series of oneshots exploring the different outcomes in a world where Imelda travels to Mexico City to bring Héctor home. 
> 
> The first three oneshots are all part of the story arc Three Shots. Oneshots after that are all separate stories. 
> 
> The Three Shots story arc does include _three_ major character deaths.
> 
> Also! If I've made any mistakes at all with my terrible Tex-Mex/Spanglish, please let me know!

Imelda wanted to go home.

Mexico City was dark around her. Night had fallen by the time she left her hotel room in a huff, and the early December air chilled her skin. She had planned to leave earlier, but she and Señor Fuentes had arrived in the city later than they’d hoped, and Señor Fuentes had left in a hurry to meet his business partner before their meeting time passed.

“Tomorrow, Imelda,” he’d told her just before leaving. “We’ll find him tomorrow. It’s too late now, and I can’t miss this meeting. You understand, of course?”

Fuming quietly, Imelda had nodded politely. “Of course, señor Fuentes.”

“Write a letter to your family,” he’d said, “We can have it delivered tomorrow before we search for Héctor. I’ll be back soon. Adiós.”

He had left, and Imelda had only briefly entertained the idea of writing a note to her brothers in Santa Cecilia. They were surely worried sick, waiting behind as their sister left for Mexico City with an old family friend. And Coco was most certainly asking questions.

But the letter could wait. Héctor could not.

Pulling a shawl around her shoulders, Imelda locked her hotel door, and left.

She knew where her husband was staying. His last letter had mentioned the hotel Ernesto had planned to rent a room at for three entire weeks once they reached Mexico City. Señor Fuentes had refused to rent a room at such a dirt cheap hotel, and even Imelda’s glare hadn’t swayed him. Imelda had been furious, but she hadn’t been able to argue any further if she wanted him to allow her to travel with him. Otherwise, she’d never reach Mexico City as quickly as she wanted.

She had to find Héctor as soon as possible.

Imelda had never been one to believe in prophetic dreams, but a nightmare had haunted her for weeks, the same awful images playing in her mind over and over until fear and desperation drove her to leave Santa Cecilia in search of her husband.

She’d dreamed of his face, bloodless and cold under his mess of hair, and his eyes watching her with fear.

In the nightmare she always tried to reach for his hand, but she could never reach him. She could only watch as he curled in on himself, gasping, calling her name, until there was silence so great her ears rang with it.

She saw her husband fall to his knees, alone in the dark, until fire consumed them both.

She’d wake up with a quiet scream, clutching at her chest, shaking, and would spend the rest of the night sitting alone, praying, until the sun came up.

They would have been nothing more than awful nightmares born of her fearing for Héctor’s safety and her own loneliness and the _anger_ of being lonely, if it hadn’t been for the letters.

Héctor’s letters had grown shorter, and his words had been less, and his messages had grown strange.

_I dream of home, Imelda._

_The nights are colder, can you feel it? It’s not even fall yet._

_Home seems so far. It’s been so long. Like a dream. I miss you, amor._

But it had been the last nightmare, the last images to give her a sleepless night, that drove the point home.

It had started out the same--Héctor’s eyes going wide, staring at her fearfully. But this time, she had tried to reach for him, and her hand had gripped his shirt.

Warm blood had spilled over her fingers, and she’d gone cold.

Héctor had slipped from her hold, and she’d felt hard stone against her skin. Lying against something, she’d tried to call his name, but only saw his blank stare, and a shadow falling over them, until again fire consumed them both.

She’d woken up from that nightmare gasping for air, shaking so hard it took half an hour to calm herself. 

A voice had screamed in her head, _find him,_ and hadn’t stopped since.

Striding down an empty street, she vowed, she _would_ find him. It was a ridiculous reason to travel all the way to Mexico City, and then alone through the streets at night, but she could not rest until she did.

Even if they were just nightmares and nothing more. She needed to find her husband.

* * *

“This way, señora.”

Imelda nodded and followed the young hotel attendant out the hotel’s main entrance. She’d found the hotel from Héctor’s letter much sooner than she’d thought, and the lone attendant on duty had seemed happy to have someone to talk to so late at night.

Outside, the young man pointed at a far corner, where a cobblestone road curved around the hotel. “Right around there. Pardon me for saying señora Rivera, but your husband didn’t say you’d be visiting, and he talks so often about you!”

“Oh, he does, does he?” Imelda asked, narrowing her eyes and following him around the corner.

“Nothing bad!” The attendant, who had introduced himself as Sergio, said in a rush. “Only good things. And nothing inappropriate, of course! He just told me, well, he wrote a song for you?”

“Ay,” Imelda sighed and rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help but smile. “That man. Yes, he wrote me a song.”

“Would you say that’s romantic?”

Their conversation was venturing into improper waters, but Sergio’s smile held nothing but bright curiosity. 

“Very,” Imelda said. She smiled, memories of Héctor’s first songs returning to her. “He’s very good at songwriting.”

Sergio smiled back at her. “I wish I could write songs. My wife would love that, but I’m not too creative.”

“Hm. I’m sure you’d do well, if you tried,” Imelda said.

“That’s what your husband said! Do you think he’d help me if I asked?”

“No,” she said, and Sergio’s face fell. Realizing how she’d sounded, Imelda tsked. “I don’t mean to be rude, Sergio, but he’ll be leaving home tonight. I’ve come to make sure of it.”

“Oh,” Sergio said, the smile brightening his face again. “Well! I know he’ll be happy, he mentions home almost as much as he mentions you and your daughter--Oh, here, Señora Rivera, his room is just ahead.”

Sergio pointed out a plain wooden door with the number 15 painted just above it. Two lanterns glowed bright on either side, and a little clay pot with red flowers sat on the window sill. Imelda wouldn’t doubt that it was Héctor who had put it there. It wasn’t unlike the flowers she had arranged in their bedroom just days before he left.

“Gracias, Sergio,” she said, nodding at him.

Sergio smiled and tipped his hat. “My pleasure! You know, I think I’ll try to write a song before my shift ends. Buenas noches, señora Rivera!”

Chuckling to herself, Imelda watched him disappear around the corner. As soon as he was gone, she wiped the smile from her face, and steeled herself.

She could hear voices inside.

Jaw set, she raised her fist, and knocked.

The voices stopped. Imelda frowned. She knocked again.

“One moment, Héctor,” came a familiar voice that made her grit her teeth. “Go away! We are busy!”

“De la Cruz,” Imelda said back, glaring at the door as if glaring at Ernesto himself. “Open this door before I have it _knocked down!_ ”

There was a scuffling noise, a shout of protest, and the door swung open.

“Imelda!”

Before she could get a word out, Imelda was swept up in familiar arms pulled into the warm hug she’d missed for months. Héctor pressed a kiss to her lips, and she almost kissed back, before beating her fist on his arm and snapping, “Héctor Rivera, put me down!”

“What?” Héctor blinked up at her, the joy on his face giving away to confusion. 

“Down!”

Héctor set her down and stepped back, but his hands still clung to her shoulders. Tears had begun to build in his brown eyes, and he watched her, waiting, almost vibrating with anticipation.

Imelda wanted to yell more at him, and she reached up to maybe slap him, but her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and she pulled him close.

She hadn’t seen his face in months. She hadn’t _touched_ him in months, or heard his voice, or his laughter. All the anger and fear and anguish that had built up in her for weeks left her in a rush as she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him.

His hands held tight, and his breath was warm, and his big nose bumped hers as they relaxed into the familiar action. Imelda gasped into the kiss, almost outright _sobbed_ , and used her free hand to grip his arm.

Too soon, Héctor leaned back, breaking the kiss, and stared down at her with watery eyes.

“Imelda,” he said, smiling through the tears. “What? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you home,” she said, hands still gripping him tight. She didn’t say, _Before my nightmares become reality, amor,_ because it was ridiculous. Instead, she jerked his shirt demandingly. “And you will leave with me, do you understand, Héctor? I will _not_ hear any arguments, you’ve been away long enough, your family needs--”

“Espere, amor! You’re not going to believe this--I was going home!” Héctor said, and before Imelda could berate him for interrupting her, he reached down and lifted a familiar brown suitcase. “See? Imelda, it’s such a coincidence, I can’t _believe_ it, it’s like a dream!”

“What?”

“I was just about to leave for home,” he said. “Mira, I have money here for a ticket--ask Ernesto! Ernesto, tell her, I--”

“Yes,” Ernesto said, and Imelda turned cold eyes on him. His lips twitched before widening into a charming smile. “In fact, he almost knocked my head off with that same suitcase when I argued, Imelda.”

Héctor laughed and set the suitcase back down. He kissed Imelda again, who narrowed her eyes at Ernesto.

“You argued with him?”

“It was nothing,” Héctor said quickly. He stroked Imelda’s arm in that way that meant he was trying to soothe her, and he infuriated her. “Look, Imelda, we were actually about to share a toast. Ernesto’s happy for me. He understands…” Voice trailing off, Héctor turned a hesitant smile on Ernesto. “Amigo?”

“Of course,” Ernesto said. “I was just… frightened, before. His leaving is so sudden, Imelda, I reacted poorly.”

“Of course,” Imelda repeated. She didn’t believe him, not one bit. She remembered the way Ernesto had pestered and prodded and begged Héctor to leave Santa Cecilia for a trip that would last months. Of course Ernesto wouldn’t let him leave so easily.

An uneasy feeling grew in her, and the voice in her head screamed at her, _go home._

“Well then, you won’t mind if we leave now,” Imelda said. “Señor Fuentes got us a room nearby, Héctor, he’ll be waiting.”

Héctor nodded, unable to stop grinning, and reached down for his suitcase.

And that would have been the end of things, if Ernesto hadn’t stepped forward.

“Without our toast?” He asked, face falling. He looked between them and held out a shot glass filled with amber liquid. “Imelda, surely, you will let us share one last toast before you leave?”

Imelda rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to, she wanted to be home, but Héctor sighed and smiled at his friend and gave Imelda a pleading look.

“Imelda?”

“Ay, Dios mío,” Imelda huffed. “Very well, have your toast.”

“Gracias, Imelda,” Ernesto said, handing the glass to Héctor. Then, suddenly, Ernesto paused. He watched Imelda’s face with some blank expression Imelda couldn’t quite place. But as his eyes landed on her, the unease in her grew twofold, and she had to keep herself from stepping back. 

“What?” She snapped.

“You must drink with us,” Ernesto said, and the charming grin was back as if it had never been gone. Quickly, he rummaged around on the small table behind him, and produced a cracked shot glass. “You have my glass, Imelda, and I will take this cracked one. It is the gentleman thing to do, of course.”

Imelda snorted and took the offered glass filled with tequila. She did not enjoy alcohol at all, but she wasn't unfamiliar with it. If she turned it down, she would only insult Ernesto, and he'd spend more time making her feel guilty until she gave in. _That_ she didn't need.

Ernesto poured himself another shot, smiling at the Riveras as he set the bottle down. He held the glass up, and Héctor and Imelda waited.

“To friendship,” he said, but before he could extend his arm to tap his glass against Imelda’s and Héctor’s, Imelda met his grin with a steely gaze and said, “To home.”

Ernesto’s eye didn’t twitch and his grin didn’t falter, but Imelda saw something shift in his eyes. Immediately, the same feeling from her nightmare twisted in her gut, and something screamed at her to run, to knock the glass from Héctor’s hand and take him and their family far away, somewhere safe from the thing in Ernesto’s eyes.

She steeled herself and refused to look away. Ernesto wouldn’t get a sign of weakness from her today. She’d never thought much of him, and she knew he’d always thought even less of her, and if she lowered her eyes now he would silently lord it over her forever. 

“To family,” Héctor said, suddenly, and Imelda finally broke her gaze from Ernesto’s stare to turn to her husband.

Héctor was looking at her, relief visible in his smile and his brown eyes, and Imelda reached out to hold his free hand reassuringly. She smiled back at him, unable to maintain the cold gaze she’d pinned Ernesto with. She couldn’t help it. Héctor always made her smile, somehow.

He squeezed back, and the three of them all raised their glasses to the center of their circle. The uneasy feeling still churned, but Imelda felt a prick of relief with Héctor’s hand in hers. 

They were going home. 

After the chorus of glasses _clinking_ against each other, Imelda turned her gaze again to Ernesto, who looked between her and Héctor with that same dark thing deep in his eyes. He smiled at her and winked.

They drank, tossing back the cheap tequila in one go.

As they set the glasses down, Imelda looked away from Ernesto. He and his opinion didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was her family, and the road home.

She could still feel the burn in her throat as she and Héctor left. They’d linked arms as they walked through the door, Imelda holding Héctor’s guitar case in her free hand, and Héctor carrying his suitcase. The chill of winter still clung to the air, but this time Imelda had someone warm to press against.

Just down the road, a train sat still on the tracks, smoke billowing up like a rogue grey cloud escaping the fog.

Imelda wondered if the sounds of the train had tortured Héctor all the nights he’d stayed in that shabby hotel, reminding him that home was only a train ticket away. She pulled closer to him, and he moved closer to her, and they shared a smile in the light of the lone lamppost just outside the door. She wanted to reach up to brush a hand through his hair, but Ernesto was watching from the doorway, and his unblinking gaze still made her uneasy. It was best not to dawdle.

“Let me walk you two to your hotel,” Ernesto said, and Imelda didn’t bother to hide the roll of her eyes. The smile he’d given her was still plastered on his face, but he was looking only at Héctor now. “I could use some fresh air.”

Héctor frowned. “What? No, Ernesto, you don’t have to. I know you were tired--”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to,” Ernesto laughed. “Besides, I have a gift for you both. Give me just one moment to get it and we can go.”

“Thirty seconds, no more,” Imelda said, voice brokering no arguments as Ernesto turned back to disappear into the room. 

With a surprised laugh, Héctor leaned down to press a kiss to Imelda’s cheek. 

“I missed you, amor,” he whispered against her, and she turned to kiss his lips. 

His breath smelled of alcohol, and she knew she very likely stank just as much. Still, she kissed him again, and they clasped hands. It took all her strength not to drop the guitar and pull both his arms around her. It had been so long.

Relief flooded her, almost overcoming the unease that still made her want to run. She smiled against his lips. He could hold her again, and make her laugh, and play with Coco. She wouldn’t be weighed down with anger and loneliness and fear. They were finally, finally together again. And finally, _finally,_ the nightmares would stop.

For the first time in a long time, things were as they should be.

The sound of the door closing forced them both to break their kiss, and Imelda looked up in frustration to see Ernesto tucking something wrapped in white cloth into the inner pocket of his chaqueta. 

“Was that our gift?” Héctor asked, grinning excitedly at his friend as they began to walk down the road, leaving the hotel and train station behind. 

“Perhaps,” Ernesto said teasingly. “You’ll have it soon, my friend, be patient.”

“What is it?”

Imelda tsked and bumped him with her shoulder, laughing softly. “He said to be _patient,_ Héctor, por favor.”

“Listen to your wife for once, tonto,” Ernesto said.

Héctor tsked. “I always listen to her.

“How I wish that were true,” she said, voice flat.

Héctor laughed. Imelda pursed her lips to keep herself from laughing as well. It had been too long since she’d seen him so giddy. Even his steps were light as they continued down the road, and he was smiling as he looked at the buildings they passed.

“Adiós, Mexico City,” Héctor said, raising his suitcase in farewell. “I’m sorry, Ernesto, but I do not envy you staying here another night.”

Ernesto didn’t answer immediately. Only half curious, Imelda glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. 

He shrugged, smiling still, staring ahead into the lights at the end of the road. “We’ll see, amigo.”

As if summoned by his words, the unease in Imelda surged again, churning her stomach. She bit her lip and fought the urge to drop the guitar and grab at her abdomen.

But the unease, and something else, pulled persistently at her gut.

“I will miss playing music with you,” Héctor was saying. Imelda shook her head, trying to pay attention over a sudden flash of aching pain in her stomach. “You'll write letters?”

“Of course,” Ernesto’s voice said, but the words were driven from Imelda’s mind by a feeling like something _pulling_ her stomach from somewhere inside, and she froze.

“Héctor,” she gasped. Her hand shook in his hold, and she was only barely aware that the guitar case had fallen from her grip. “Héctor, wait--”

“Imelda?” Héctor’s voice was immediately frantic as he turned to her, and suddenly both his hands were holding her up because she was gasping and wrapping her arms around her middle. She looked up at him, rogue tears hot on her cheeks as she opened her mouth in a silent plea. “Imelda! Qué pasó? Imelda--”

Hector’s words died as if his very voice had been stolen. His eyes went wide, and his face paled, and the horror consuming Imelda grew unbearable as she watched her husband bend over with a choked cry. His hands slipped from her shoulders and he clutched at his own body, a pained sound she had never heard him make escaping his suddenly pale lips. 

_Héctor,_ Imelda thought, unable to speak through clenched teeth as the love of her life fell to his knees.

“How horrible,” Ernesto’s voice said, somewhere beyond the pain and despair. “Perhaps it was something in the tequila?”

But Imelda could pay him no mind. 

She went to her knees beside her husband as he fell forward, and she forced her arms to open wide to wrap around his body. She wanted to say his name as he grew limp in her hold, she wanted to turn him to see him smiling brightly at her like always did, she wanted him to go _home_ with her to their family, but she could only gasp and shake and watch the world go steadily dark.

Fire ripped through her abdomen, and a voice still screamed at her to run. Her arms trembled around Héctor, and she pressed herself against his bowed back, sobbing, and grasping for his hand.

Somehow, she knew, he was gone.

She thought she heard his sweet voice, faint and far off, calling her name. 

“I do apologize, Imelda,” said another voice. “You were not meant to die. But, you brought this upon yourself.”

She looked up through tears that burned as hot as the fire in her core and saw Ernesto standing over them, the gleam of his eyes bright against the haze in the sky.

The edges of her sight grew dark.

 _Coco,_ she thought, a howl of grief following her daughter’s face into a well of nothing as her breath became strained. Héctor’s body was solid beneath her, but even the sensation of her husband’s hair on her face was fading.

“Adiós, Riveras,” came the same low voice, and Imelda saw a flash of white cloth fall and a bright gleam of metal before she grew too weak to keep her head up. She shuddered, and lowered her head, just as the low voice said from somewhere very far away, "Que Dios los acompañe."

She closed her eyes as another new pain burst into her side, and something warm and slick covered her hand.

Héctor's fingers slid from her grasp. She fell back, and felt hard stone against her skin. Something about a nightmare fleeted through her darkening mind until all sensation and thoughts and memories were simply gone.

The dark behind her eyelids burst into light, and a bridge of orange fluttering petals stretched out before her, and a familiar voice called her name.

* * *

It was a tragedy that would be told for years to any guest who stayed at the hotel. 

Everyone who worked there knew of it, but they would often try to get the youngest hotel attendant to tell the story, because he had been one of the first to actually be there.

But Sergio would always go pale at the very mention of it, and would refuse, until he quit less than two years later. He only ever spoke of it to the police, his wife, and finally his son when he begged to hear it. Otherwise, he kept his silence. It made him sick.

He told it like this:

It was the end of his shift, and he was tired. He wanted to go home, you know? Who doesn’t after a long day of work? No one wants to stay in a place that isn’t home longer than they have to. Home is _home._

He’d been pulling on his coat and hat, tucking a half written song that would never be finished into his pocket, when the screaming started, and with a curse he ran out the hotel entrance with the coat still only half on. He rounded the corner, almost slipping on the cobblestone. It was late at night--he’d meant to leave earlier, but his boss hadn’t let him--and the road curving around the hotel was lit only by the lanterns that had been recently added to the walls. But the light was enough to see… well, to see _them._

The bodies lay halfway down the road. The woman had been on her side, one arm outstretched as if reaching for the corpse that was curled next to her, staring with wide eyes at the night sky. The man’s head had been turned down, his face hidden by a mess of hair, but Sergio had recognized them both after he got over his shock.

Blood pooled in the cobblestone around the Riveras, and a knife gleamed where it sat in Señora Rivera’s open hand.

Just across from them, four people Sergio had never seen were staring at the bodies with wide eyes. They were two couples returning from some party, but Sergio never found out anything else about them. One of the women had her hands covering her mouth and she was crying, and one man was kneeling down, shaking an unresponsive Señor Rivera. It was a fruitless action. With so much blood beneath their bodies, the couple was most certainly dead.

The other woman was telling her partner to run for the police. The man nodded, stammering, and ran.

Sergio had jogged the rest of the way, staring in disbelief. He’d just spoken to Señora Rivera less than an hour ago, and to her husband a few hours before that. The wife had been a little brusque but ultimately polite, and her husband had made Sergio laugh within minutes of meeting him.

Sergio remembered Señor Rivera mentioning the songs he wrote for his wife on the very first day he met Sergio, calling her his “muse” and “mi amor” and “la estrella de mi vida.” He remembered the smile Señora Rivera had graced him with when he’d shown her the hotel door.

Neither of them moved as he neared them, and neither of them spoke. They never would again, of course, Sergio knew, but it was odd to see either of them so silent and still.

Next to their bodies, kneeled a man in a maroon charro suit, his hands covering his face. 

De la Cruz had been the singer, a good singer, but he’d never treated Sergio with any sort of respect. Still, Sergio felt remorse for him.

Whatever had happened, he must have been devastated.

“Señor De la Cruz?” Sergio asked, walking nearer. “Are--”

“Dead,” the musician moaned. He bent forward, face still hidden, and sobbed. “ _They’re dead._ ”

“What happened?” Sergio asked. “Did you see who did this? Maybe we can--”

“Of course I didn’t see!” De la Cruz snapped, looking up at Sergio with red rimmed eyes. “I was in our room. She wanted him to leave, but he wanted to stay. And he was going to walk her to the station, but he was so tired. I told him not to, but she, she--” With a moan, he shook his head and shut his eyes.

Later, when Sergio would tell his wife the story, he would frown and shake his head. Something had been off about the musician, not because he was overcome with grief. It had been as if Sergio had been watching an actor in a movie, but maybe he’d just been in so much shock himself. Maybe. It had all felt so surreal. The terror of it all wouldn’t hit him until later that night, where he would collapse by his bed on trembling knees.

He’d never seen dead bodies before.

Maybe it was because of the shock that he was able to ignore the anguish enough to find Ernesto’s words odd. 

“But,” Sergio said, “She said he was going home with her. And he always talked about home! Why would she--?”

“You did not know them,” De la Cruz said, looking up at him. His gaze was less anguished and more furious now, and the intensity drove Sergio back a step. “What would you know? _I_ knew them. She hated him. She wanted him dead, because he preferred the world over her.”

Looking to the bodies, the musician sighed and bowed his head. “She… she must have brought the knife with her. And he fought. But… Oh, my dear fool of a friend, it must have been torture to harm her in defense. He was a kind man.”

“Qué trágico,” one of the women whispered. 

“Si,” Ernesto said, placing a hand over his heart. “It truly is tragic. I… I will miss them. They had been good friends. Even Imelda, once, long ago.”

With a deep breath, he shook his head, and rose to his feet. In one hand he lifted a guitar case from the ground, which Sergio hadn’t noticed before. With a frown, and without thinking, Sergio pointed and asked, “Why did he have his guitar with him if he was staying?”

From then on, and for the rest of his life, Sergio would always take a minute before voicing any question at all. People thought him slow when he did this, but he learned that night that speaking without thinking first could bring out the devil in a person’s eyes.

De la Cruz looked at him in the dark of the December night, and something in that look made fear stir in Sergio’s gut. Fight or flight, he thought, and he wanted to run. But he was rooted to the spot, even as De la Cruz chuckled grimly, patting the case with his free hand.

“So many questions,” the musician said. “You demand so much from a grieving man, Señor. But if you must know, the guitar is mine. I let him play it on stage, but it has always been mine.”

Still confused, but still in fear of De la Cruz’s gaze, Sergio blurted, “Oh.”

De la Cruz smiled.

“I think he wanted to play one last song for her before she left, and he would use no other guitar than the one he coveted from me.” Here, De la Cruz paused, then laughed under his breath. “Such a shame. He did envy me so.”

Gulping, Sergio looked at the bodies.

The urge to cry overwhelmed him. Blinking his eyes, he shuddered and looked away. 

At this point, the police had arrived, walking swiftly around the corner. With loud gasp, De la Cruz walked towards them, exclaiming, “Finally! Ayúdame, por favor! My friend has been murdered!”

Sergio remained where he stood, listening to the couples whispering about jealous wives and walk-away husbands, and pulled his coat closer around him as one officer jogged over to shine a light over the bodies.

It was all very strange to him, even decades later, but people had always told him he wasn’t very bright, which was why he only ever worked in hotels carrying richer people’s luggage. He wasn’t sure how much he believed that--he wasn’t stupid just because he didn’t earn as much as the men in suits and women with pearl necklaces--but, maybe he hadn’t been so smart then.

When De la Cruz’s movie _El Camino a Casa_ premiered, his wife told him he should not see it if he didn’t want to have nightmares again, because the murder was played on screen. 

The husband in the movie had been a simple, bumbling fool who hated his wife, and the wife had been a cold, angry woman who hated her husband and carried a blade all the way from home to drive it into his side and then her own.

The thought of it made Sergio sick.

The two hadn’t seemed to hate each other when they spoke to Sergio, but De la Cruz was right: what did he know?


	2. Three Shots: The Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the Three Shots story arc. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Ernesto was home.

The hour was late, and the lights of Mexico City shimmered through the clear floor-to-ceiling windows that enclosed the ballroom of Ernesto’s mansion. The polished tile floor gleamed under the crystal chandeliers that hung overhead, and the marble pillars that supported the high ceiling were draped with silver and gold fabrics. At one end of the ballroom, Ernesto’s band played instrumental renditions of his classics, the band members dressed in charro suits that played homage to his own famous, royal blue suit. Music and chattering voices filled the vast room as guests moved to and fro, some dancing in the center where the light was brightest, and others sharing conversations by the windows and enormous flower vases that bordered the dance floor.

Ernesto had made his way through the crowd, stopping every so often to greet friends and acquaintances and to accept praise from stammering starstruck fans, until he reached the staircase leading to the second level of the ballroom. With a glass of champagne in hand, he paused midway up the stairs to observe the crowd milling about and dancing to his music. 

The party had been in full swing for close to three hours, and there was no sign of it slowing down. He’d had it arranged to celebrate the premier of his newest movie, Cólera del Corazón, which had been met with praise from critics and fans alike. The plot twists and scenery had been highlighted by many, as well as Ernesto’s four monologues that stirred the hearts of every soul in the theater. 

Many guests had especially adored the dialogue shared between the hero and the damsel near the end.

“ _Can no one understand?_ ” Ernesto’s character had said passionately on screen, as his love interest gazed longingly up at him. “ _Can they not see? My guitar is not just a tool. Music is not just a passing fancy. It is the fire that fuels my heart. Music isn’t just in me. It_ is _me!_ ”

“ _Oh, mi amor,_ ” the damsel had said, and Ernesto had shared an amorous kiss with her before the climax scene of Ernesto taking on two dozen angry bandits alone while his damsel screamed and fainted in the background.

It had been a favorite scene amongst his guests, and he’d repeated the lines many a time to excited fans as he moved through the crowd. Someone had asked him how he’d dreamed up such a speech.

He’d simply written what he felt, he’d told the curious guest with a smile. How else?

It was true, of course. He’d written the words one night with a shot of tequila at hand, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he scribbled the words down. He’d sat back, held his sheet of paper up to the light.

He’d written it so well, he could hear Héctor’s voice reading it back to him.

The words had been Héctor’s, and Ernesto still remembered listening to the young boy that had been on the cusp of manhood, frustrated with the adults who looked down on his obsession with music. Héctor had been so young, just barely falling into his infatuation with the new Rivera girl who had moved in with her abuelo near the church. But even though he’d said the words so long ago, and though Ernesto had at the time rolled his eyes, the words had stuck.

Thank God. Thank Héctor and his infatuations. The movie would not have existed were it not for Ernesto’s old friend.

There was no need for anyone else to know this, of course.

Looking over the crowd, Ernesto sipped some champagne, and enjoyed the brief solitude in the midst of the crowd. No one had stepped up to speak with him in, oh, about five minutes, and it gave Ernesto the chance enjoy the sight of his metaphorical familia filling his home.

He could see faces in the crowd staring at him with adoring eyes, and he grinned and winked in that special way that could make even the stars in all the heavens swoon. As he glanced about, he remembered that he was to meet with his biographer within the hour. It was a nuisance, just like the man himself, but they were on an exciting part of his life--the first days he spent away from Santa Cecilia, traveling Mexico, to begin his career.

Mercado was going to spend a few minutes interviewing him before writing up a draft of the next chapter, which Ernesto would demand be ready before the month was over, or the man would take a lifetime to write it. And Ernesto was going to make certain their meeting was over before his party was over as well, or the man would question him for hours on end.

Sipping again at his drink, Ernesto let his eyes wander over the crowd, trying to spot Mercado before the writer found him first. Near the stage across the floor, he saw a group of women who headed charities he often donated to, and by a pillar he saw Jorge Negrete laughing with María Félix and some lesser actors that Ernesto hadn’t bothered to learn the names of. A government official stood nearby, speaking to a woman who was far too young for him, and near a flower vase that was as high as Ernesto’s shoulders, a woman paused and turned her face to him.

Their eyes met.

Ernesto choked. He coughed, spitting up the champagne that had been on its way down his throat, and thumped his chest with his fist. A group of nearby guests gasped and asked after his condition, but he waved them impatiently away as he coughed.

When his throat was clear, and the worried guests away, Ernesto looked up at the woman with wide eyes.

But she was gone.

 _Mierda,_ Ernesto thought. His hand had gone cold with champagne that had spilled over the glass rim, and he wiped it on his jacket, trying to still a slight tremor in his fingers.

He swore on his very own soul, he had met eyes with a ghost.

His heart was pounding, and he laughed softly to himself. What a ridiculous notion. Ghosts. Nothing existed between the confines of heaven and hell but demons and angels, and Ernesto had dealt with his demons eons ago.

Souls that left their bodies could not return. They were gone, where Ernesto did not need to deal with them.

And that included the souls of meddling wives who had once tried to ruin his dreams.

Straightening his jacket, Ernesto set the empty glass of champagne down on the railing and silently cursed it. Cheap champagne must have made him see things. That, combined with the inspiration behind his latest movie, was dredging up the past.

He’d dealt with such situations before. He’d deal with them again. 

He glared at the far off flower vase. He would have it and it’s violet flowers taken away as soon as the party was over for the night. The pinche plants must have cast shadows on some random woman walking near them, creating a false image of an angry youthful wife with her hair in purple ribbons. 

Ernesto sniffed and adjusted his jacket. It was ridiculous, but his stomach churned at Imelda’s memory.

“Ernesto, amigo!”

Heaving a sigh, Ernesto turned to grin at Gabriel Mercado, who was walking up the stairs with his arms wide open.

“Mercado,” he greeted, pulling the writer into a quick hug. “How are you enjoying the party, my friend?”

“Greatly, as always,” Mercado said. “I was actually hoping to grab another glass of champagne before we start, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Ernesto said. “I could use another as well, I think. Let me find us a waiter--”

Again Ernesto scanned the crowd, looking for the servers in tuxedos that carried the crystal glasses filled with sparkling alcohol. He spotted one across the floor, and raised his hand just as Mercado began to speak.

“Actually, Ernesto, I have a surprise for you! It has taken me weeks to arrange this, but I think it will add that extra bit of _oomph_ to this chapter that we were hoping for--”

As Ernesto’s hand went up, his eyes landed on a figure near the waiter, and his heart stopped.

Imelda stared back at him.

He shut his eyes, shook his head.

When he opened his eyes again, heart in his throat, Imelda was gone.

The waiter was walking quickly through the crowd towards him, but Imelda had disappeared. The back of Ernesto’s neck prickled. 

“On second thought,” he said, lowering his arm and gripping the edge of his jacket to calm the tremble that had once again shaken his hand. “I am feeling a little unwell, Gabriel.”

Taking a glass from the waiter, Mercado frowned. “Oh?”

“My stomach,” Ernesto said. He gulped and chuckled, patting Mercado shoulder. “It must have been something I ate. Stay and have your drink, I will wait for you in my sitting room.”

“Of course,” Mercado said. “Besides, my surprise seems to have wandered off.”

Ernesto paused. “Surprise?”

“Yes, as I was just saying--I have a surprise for you! I think you’re going to enjoy this, Ernesto.” Mercado’s face turned sly, and he nudged Ernesto’s side with his elbow, apparently unperturbed by Ernesto’s scowl. “A nice young lady I think you’d like to meet.”

“Ah, of course,” Ernesto said. He was suddenly in no mood to entertain some starry eyed fan, but maybe the company of a pleasant señorita would take his mind off… other things. 

“I’m going to bring her by for our meeting,” Mercado said. “Go on ahead, I’ll look for her and finish this fantastic drink.”

With a nod, Ernesto turned, and headed for the hall that branched off from the ballroom. Guests tried to catch his attention, but he shouldered past them, eyes staring hard ahead.

His heart was racing. It was absurd. He was going mad. The day had been long, and even though he’d slept well the night before, he’d woken up tired. That must have been it. He was seeing things because he was exhausted.

 _How do you sleep at night?_ An old voice whispered in his ear.

With a gasp, he whipped around. He was standing in the arch that lead to the hallway, and the lights from the ballroom chandeliers did not reach into the hall. No guests had followed him, but he swore the voice had been so real that Héctor himself could have been standing at his side.

It was absurd. _Absurd._

The cheap alcohol, and the extravagant activities of the day, and remembering the friend of his youth was making him see and hear things. Nothing more.

He’d dealt with his demons. He was done with them.

 _I sleep well at night,_ he thought, as if answering the bodiless voice. Running a hand through his hair, he turned and marched down the hall to his sitting room and the good, expensive alcohol. _How do you sleep, old friend?_

The voice didn’t answer. 

Which was fine with Ernesto. He knew where the man slept.

Six feet under the dry ground in Santa Cecilia, next to the woman the world thought had murdered him. 

They were both far off, dead, encased in caskets in the peasant cemetery of their childhood home, where their faces and voices could not pester Ernesto.

With a smirk, Ernesto continued down the hall to his sitting room, where he would discuss the early days of his career, and the fool of a friend that had tried to follow him.


	3. Three Shots: The Third

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Character Death
> 
> This is the third and final part of the Three Shots story arc.
> 
> After this one, I'll be adding oneshots that explore different outcomes of Imelda finding her husband before he's murdered.
> 
> But first: THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MY BETA READERS eternaamantedehistorias and imelda-and-hector-are-otp! They took the time to read through the messy rough draft and put up with all my rambling. Without them, this chapter would've just sat in the drafts folder gathering virtual dust. Thank y'all so much!

The sitting room was dark when Ernesto walked through the door. The single window at the far end was tall and wide, but the heavy curtains drawn across it blocked any light from the city that might have streamed in. A block of faint light fell in from the hall as Ernesto stood in the open doorway, and was gone the moment he shut the door behind him. 

He didn't need the light. Even in the dark, Ernesto knew his way around.

He moved across the plush carpet, sidestepped the high backed sofa in the center of the room, and headed straight for the liquor cabinet by the bookshelf.

As he moved forward, he squinted into the dark, fists clenched by his sides. Imelda's ghost and Héctor's voice had clearly been figments of his imagination, and he was not frightened by that fact in the least, but the darkness around him seemed stifling, as if the figments were hidden just inches beyond his vision.

If he looked in the corner, would Imelda be there, watching?

He had not turned on the overhead lights. He would not give _them_ the satisfaction. But the moment he reached the cabinet and the small bar near it, he switched on the lamp with the stained glass and glanced about, chin out and jaw clenched.

No phantoms stared back. 

Of course not, he thought, and laughed to himself. When would he stop being ridiculous? There were no ghosts to follow him around. He'd paid his dues long ago, there was nothing to fear now.

Still. If their spirits did not haunt him, their memories did.

It had been a long time since he'd been so bothered by the thoughts of Héctor and Imelda. He did think of them from time to time--how could he not, when they were the inspiration behind so much of his success--but he hadn't been anxious over the thoughts since that first year after the murder.

During those early months, there had been moments where he missed his friend so much his heart ached. Little regretful thoughts would sit at the back of his mind day and night, wondering if there could have been another way. Some way to keep Héctor at his side where he could write his songs and bring fame closer without a wife and child to steal his concentration.

But those little thoughts had quickly given way to the knowledge that there had been no other way. The moment Héctor had begun to speak so wistfully of home, the same time their friendship had become so strained that Ernesto could hardly call him hermano anymore, Ernesto had known what had to be done. 

Héctor's death had been a shame, but he had dug his own grave. 

Ernesto sighed and opened the cabinet. Inside were a multitude of expensive spirits, clear and dark liquids sitting in expertly crafted bottles. Some toppers were crystal and shimmered in the light from the lamp. Others were carved wood, commissions and gifts from well-known artists from all across the world. 

There was only one bottle with a plain topper, and it sat behind all the others.

Ernesto pulled out a new bottle of tequila, one of the more pricey ones--the one with the glass topper shaped like a grinning skull with burnt orange eyes--and set it on the bar before reaching behind the rest to grab the simplest, oldest bottle he owned.

As he carefully moved it over the others, his thoughts turned to Imelda.

In the beginning, Imelda's death had been a shame as well. He had never meant to kill her, though he had often wished she didn't exist to make his life so difficult. But as time went on, Ernesto realized it had been a blessing. With Héctor dead and gone and his words free to use, Imelda might have tracked Ernesto down had she been alive. But he'd never had to deal with angry letters from a furious wife, wondering where her husband had gone. 

Besides, in the fifteen years since their death together, their tragedy had been a fantastic plot point in his movies. 

There had been letters from her idiot brothers though, bothersome things that pestered him in the year after her death. Ernesto had answered the early ones, sending his condolences and well wishes, and ignored the rest of the letters until they stopped arriving at his doorstep.

He didn't know what had become of them, or the littlest Rivera. And with his growing career, he could never bring himself to care.

Early on, he had considered telling the Rivera brothers how much of a shame their sister's death had been, and how tragic that it was her own fault. And Héctor's, of course. If Imelda had stayed away, if Héctor had remained complacent, they might be alive today.

Ernesto set the plain bottle down at the forefront of the cabinet, in front of all the others, so any eyes that watched from the shadows could see. 

The liquid within was amber, almost translucent in the light, and a thin layer of fine dust covered the entirety of the bottle. Some of it came away with his fingers, grey and soft, leaving the impression of his hand on the glass.

The last time he'd poured tequila from that bottle fifteen years ago, two people had given their lives.

For some reason, seeing the bottle out in the open brought him comfort. He'd never been able to get rid of it, not when it had been such a help to his success. Only days after the murder did he realize how lucky he'd been that the authorities had been so thoroughly fooled by the blade in Imelda's hand that they'd never suspected poison or Ernesto. If they had rummaged through his things and found the bottle hidden there, he might not be standing there today.

It served as a good reminder to how close he'd been to failure. It was another reason to always, always seize his moment.

And it did well to fend off even the angriest haunting memories.

He dusted his fingers on his chaqueta and took up the unopened bottle of poison-less liquor, pulling the glass skull topper off. On the bar, four shot glasses had already been laid out, and he filled one to the brim with the expensive amber tequila.

Before he could toss the shot back, he paused, eyes on the empty glasses and the dusty bottle with its plain topper, and arched an eyebrow.

What was it Imelda had made a toast to that night? Home? 

Well. Ernesto was home. And so was she, with her husband, just as she'd wanted.

As if eyes were watching him from the dark corners of the room, Ernesto held his glass up to the air and said, "To success."

He tossed it back and relished the burn down his throat.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," he called, and grabbed the heavy bottle up to pour another shot. 

The door opened, and Mercado's voice said through the dark, "I found her, Ernesto! You're going to be very delighted--Por Dios, why is it so dark in here? Señorita, have a seat, por favor, while I find the light switch--"

"By the door," Ernesto said, annoyed. He would not mind spending time with a young lady, but Mercado would not leave until he'd gotten enough notes to fill his little notebook.

"By the door? I don't see it, where--ah! Here it is--"

There was a click, the room filled with light, and Ernesto glanced up as he poured his drink.

By the door, standing with her fists at her sides, Imelda stared back.

Something crashed, and Ernesto stumbled back until he felt the bar bump into his spine. He stared, bottle of tequila shaking in his hand, unable to back away further as Imelda's ghost watched him with cold eyes. 

Imelda had found him. She had followed him, with her accusing stare and clenched fists and--

Wait.

Ernesto breathed. 

Imelda's eyes watched him, but the face wasn't right.

The girl, barely old enough to be a woman, was short and thin and her dark hair was in two braids that fell over her covered shoulders. Her brown eyes were reminiscent of Imelda, but her nose was more similar to Héctor's. The shape of her face did not match either of them, but Ernesto could see their influence in more than just her features. She stood like Imelda ready to fight, and when she stepped forward so Mercado could shut the door, Ernesto swore he could sense that same barely repressed energy Héctor had hidden behind a calm facade when he was trying to be serious.

Maybe their spirits had not trailed Ernesto from the ballroom. But they’d found another way to haunt him. 

"Ernesto!" Mercado said, and Ernesto jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Blinking and looking away from the girl's blank expression, Ernesto turned to see Mercado watching his face, brow furrowed.

"Mercado, what--"

"Go have a seat, Ernesto, we'll have this cleaned up later," Mercado said, gesturing at the shattered shot glass and spilled liquid on the ground around Ernesto's boots. He must have dropped the glass the moment he laid eyes on the youngest Rivera. Sighing, Mercado took the open bottle from Ernesto’s hand and set it on the bar. "I know this brand, it is a very good one, such a shame--please, Ernesto, let's have a seat--"

"Yes, of course," he said around a breathless chuckle, forcing his trembling hands to still. Young Coco Rivera stood near the sofa, and Ernesto hesitated only a moment before standing next to the opposite one.

She watched every step he took, her face still carefully blank.

FIghting the uneasy feeling still bothering him, Ernesto plastered on his easiest, most charming smile. He could not let her know that he’d recognized her the moment he laid eyes on her, or how she had driven fear into him without even blinking. 

He would not let her know how well he remembered her parents’ faces, and could see their features so clearly in the girl standing before him.

"Who have you brought, Mercado?" He asked. 

Rounding the sofa, Mercado held his hands out excitedly, grinning when Coco slipped one hand into his. "Your gift, my friend! It has taken me weeks to arrange this, ever since you said you wanted this chapter to be more exciting than the rest. You remember, of course, we are writing about your good friends' deaths this time around, no? 

"Of course." How could he forget?

"Pues," Mercado said, raising Coco's hand as if offering her up to some deity. "This is the missing ingredient! señor De la Cruz, may I introduce to you la señorita Coco Rivera--daughter of your dearest, dearest friends, may God be with them." 

Coco didn’t smile in greeting. She didn't blink. At the utterance of the word "friends," the corner of her mouth twitched. 

"Do you recognize her?" Mercado asked, still excited. "I know you met her when she was sólo una chiquilla, but how can you forget such striking eyes?" 

"Coco," he said around a laugh, as if just realizing. "Of course! It has been very long, my dear, do you--"

"I've come a long way, señor De la Cruz," Coco said, words cold, and Ernesto's voice died in his throat. "I am tired. May we sit?" 

Mercado blinked, possibly surprised by her cold response, but Ernesto cleared his throat and gestured amiably at the sofa. "Yes, of course. Have a seat, por favor."

Coco slipped her hand from Mercado's grasp and sat, straightening her skirt over her knees and adjusting the pale violet shawl around her shoulders. Mercado took his seat in the armchair that was set between the two sofas, and Ernesto sat opposite of the girl, careful to keep his smile bright as Coco was suddenly too occupied with her shawl to meet his eyes.

Now that her gaze was directed elsewhere, Ernesto carefully let out a sigh of relief. Her eyes were too familiar, too cold, and it felt almost as if memories from his past watched him through them.

"I saw you," he said suddenly, realization dawning on him. "In the ballroom."

"I told you she wandered off," Mercado said. He was rummaging around in his open suitcase, pulling out a pen and his notebook. "Her fiancé is waiting for her there. I do regret leaving him, señorita, he seemed very lost--"

"He's been with me through a lot," Coco said. She was looking at her hands on her lap, long fingers not unlike those of her Papá's, who had been very deft at playing the guitar for many years before he'd even met Imelda.

Long before he'd ever held the white guitar Imelda had given him, which now sat quietly in a glass case in Ernesto's bedroom, the grinning headstock always watching.

"And he wanted to come with me," Coco continued, "But he doesn't need to be here for this. I only need to speak with the señor De la Cruz for a moment."

"My dear," Mercado said around a chuckle. "You might be here longer than a moment. I do plan to use your conversation for our book. Now, before we begin, I'm sure--"

"How are your Tíos, Coco?" Ernesto asked, ignoring Mercado. Coco blinked up at him, finally showing confusion. Maybe now Ernesto could gain the upper hand. 

"They are doing well," she answered after a moment with a frown. Ernesto waited, but she offered nothing else. 

Mercado scribbled something in his notebook.

Before the urge to glare became too much, Ernesto began, "I remember them. Do they still--"

"They miss their sister every day," Coco said. Ernesto's heart raced, and again Coco's eyes held his gaze. "They miss their brother-in-law."

"Yes," Ernesto said, slowly. At his side his hand had clenched into a fist. What had the woman come all the way for, really? "I imagine they do. I, too, miss your parents every day. They were... very good friends."

He swallowed, and looked down, experienced enough at faking grief to fool even his most experienced fellow actors. He just needed to fool this simple girl enough to send her away. Pursing his lips, he shook his head and continued, "It was so tragic, I--I still have nightmares some nights--" 

"Señor," Coco said, and Ernesto glanced up to see her unimpressed face. "With all due respect, I did not come here to listen to you talk about your nightmares."

She was just as awful as her mother had been.

Gritting his teeth, Ernesto was seconds from erupting at her before he noticed her hands. Her face was impassive, but her hands had curled into fists on her lap. Ernesto remembered a young man who had tried to keep his composure the same way. Ernesto had always been able to tell when Héctor was holding back. 

Coco had not come to Ernesto's home to fill Mercado's notebook with sweet words. She had something to say, and she was getting ready to make demands.

Ernesto had no time to listen to her sob story.

"Then tell me, señorita," he said, finally letting his grin drop and sneering at her. "What did you come all this way for?"

"I came for answers," she said, emotion seeping through into her steady voice. 

Ernesto's heart skipped a beat. He unclenched his jaw and flattened his hand over his chest, as if the request had shocked him into silence.

“Anything,” he said. He could feel his heartbeat against his palm, racing. He forced himself to breathe evenly as he gave her his most sympathetic gaze. “I have so many stories of your papá when he was young--”

“I did not come here for stories,” Coco’s hard voice cut through his words like a heated knife through butter. Ernesto was left with his mouth hanging open, shocked and outraged at her sheer _audacity,_ before he hastily regathered his wits.

"Then what answers could I possibly give you?" He snapped. She'd only been in his presence for minutes and he could already his blood pressure rising. Leave it to a Rivera to anger him so quickly.

"All the answers I need," she said. She took a deep breath and, with a slight tremble in her hands, then looked right into Ernesto's eyes as she asked, "Why have you been lying all these years?"

Mercado's pen went still. Silence fell over all three of them, as Ernesto refused to break from Coco’s gaze, and Mercado looked between them both, pen poised above a paper filled with a messy scrawl.

Ernesto had to force himself to once again relax his clenched jaw.

"Lying?" He laughed and shook his head, leaning back as if her accusations didn't bother him in the least. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. "I never lie, niña. Except perhaps about my weight, give or take a few pounds!"

He patted a hand on his stomach and laughed, and Mercado laughed uproariously with him, but Coco remained silent. Ernesto could see a tick in her jaw, and her fists were so tight that her knuckles had gone pale.

Her eyes, big and gleaming with emotion, suddenly reminded him more of Héctor than Imelda.

"You've claimed that all the songs you sing were written by you," she said, as the men's laughter died down. "My Papá wrote those songs, señor, and I’m certain you know that."

Ernesto's laughter cut off. Mercado scoffed and stared at Coco as if she'd sprouted a second head. 

"What?" Ernesto snapped, blood still pounding in his ears. He felt something dark and angry building up within him. "I wrote every song I've ever sung. Every song."

"My dear," Mercado said, frowning. "I understand you miss your parents, but that is a terrible accusation to make--"

"It's the truth," she said. She was still looking right at Ernesto, as if her gaze could wring the truth out of him. " _Un Poco Loco. El Mundo es mi Familia. Recuérdame--_ " Her voice cut off and she swallowed. "That was our song. He never shared it with anyone but me."

"You remember wrong," Ernesto said. He looked at Mercado, if only to break Coco's hold on him, and said, "She was so young, pobrecita. Héctor must have sung my songs to her so many times, she thought they were his."

Mercado made a sympathetic noise, again scribbling in his notebook.

"I was young but I was not stupid," Coco said, voice trembling, and Ernesto couldn't help but grin to himself. Once she made her emotional outburst, he would have her dragged from his mansion and thrown into the streets where her accusations belonged. Who would believe her then? "Papá and Mamá sang to me every night. I saw Papá writing in his songbook. And when he was gone, he sent me these." 

She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a folded paper.

Ernesto's heart stopped. As she unfolded the paper with unsteady hands, Ernesto was reminded of Héctor bent over a table in some poorly lit bedroom, writing sweet notes to his wife and daughter, and lyrics to songs he had written on the road.

Coco held the paper up. It was yellowed at the edges, crinkled as if it had been folded and unfolded many times. The ink was still dark, the words still clear, and Ernesto was able to read, _Dearest Coco, How are you, mija? Do you remember that your Papá loves you very much? I wrote a new song, I would like you to try it and tell me what you think. And there are two beautiful flowers I've folding into this note. Will you put one in your Mamá's hair for me? You can both--_

Ernesto ignored the rest of Héctor’s familiar scrawl and saw, beneath the short note, the words to _El Mundo es mi Familia_ filling the page.

"The letter is dated," Coco was saying. "Long before you claimed you wrote it."

Without a word, Ernesto reached for the letter, but Coco pulled it back and stared hard at him.

"Even if you take this one," she said, over the sound of Mercado scribbling furiously in his notebook. "I have many more hidden."

"It's fake," Ernesto said. He was breathing hard. He forced himself to remain calm. "Show it to whoever you like. No one will believe you."

"When the bodies of Imelda and Héctor Rivera arrived in Santa Cecilia," she said, ignoring Ernesto's dare and infuriating him further. "Their luggage arrived as well. Clothes, shoes, Mamá's perfumes and Papá's favorite pens. But Papá's songbook and his guitar never arrived." She paused, meeting Ernesto's furious glare with a steady gaze, and asked, "I don't know what you've done with his songbook, but I see you using his guitar in every terrible movie you make."

"The guitar is mine,” Ernesto snapped. "Héctor borrowed it often, but only because I was a generous friend and let him."

"It was a wedding gift," Coco said. "My tíos remember my Mamá giving it to Papá. It's in our family photo--"

"Silly stories they made up for their grieving sobrina," Ernesto interrupted with a sneer. "Your tíos have told you lies all your life. How does it feel to have been raised by liars and murderers, señorita?"

Coco stood. Her nostrils flared and her face was flushed, and she held Ernesto’s gaze as he stood to face her.

Still sitting, Mercado was writing without even looking at the paper, glancing between Coco and Ernesto.

The girl was acting as if she were some sort of threat to him in his own sitting room. What could a small peasant girl do to him? Yell? Her Mamá had yelled at him, and look where she was now.

"I want to know where his songbook is," Coco said. Her hands were trembling at her sides, but her voice was steady. "And I want to know why you tell the world that Papá's songs and guitar are yours. I want to know why you lied."

"Mira, niña," Ernesto said, holding his palms out as if to calm her. "I know it must have been difficult for you, growing up knowing what your mother had done to your father. But this, what you are doing here, will not change the past." Her eyes had grown shiny, as if there were tears waiting to be shed, and Ernesto chuckled softly. "I know you don't want to hear this--"

"Another lie," she said. "My Mamá did not kill her husband."

Again the room went silent. Mercado murmured something under his breath and flipped the page to continue writing with such speed as if the devil itself controlled his hand. Ernesto wanted to knock the damn things from his hands, but Coco had his attention again as she continued.

"They loved each other. I knew. My tíos knew. All of Santa Cecilia knew. They had fought to be together, and the world would have ended before they harmed each other."

The truth sometimes held power over the weak, but Ernesto had evaded any consequences from ignoring it for over a decade. He _knew_ how Imelda had ensnared Héctor, how Héctor had been so lovesick he’d stayed awake night after night pining over the girl, writing love notes and the beginnings of songs on scraps of paper. One of the ridiculous love songs had featured in his latest movie and he'd received great praise for it from an audience that remained completely unaware that it had been written for a girl from Santa Cecilia.

Ernesto knew how much they had loved each other. That same love had almost ruined his career. It was not something the world needed to know. It was not something this girl should ever have known. Ernesto had already spun his tales of their hatred for each other, and he was not going to have their child create even the smallest blemish on his name.

He’d had enough.

"She hated him and he despised her," Ernesto said. "They were miserable bastardos, and the murder was a long time coming. It's hard to accept, but accept it you must."

"I won't," Coco said. "And I won't have you slander their names any longer!"

"Señorita!" Mercado said, quickly standing and holding his hands out as Ernesto leaned forward in fury. "Señor De la Cruz! Por favor! Let us calm down! Arguing will only lead to misery my friends, please--"

"Raise your voice to me again, muchacha," Ernesto said, baring his teeth in a sneer, "And I will have you dragged out in front of all my guests, and thrown into the street."

"A drink," Mercado said suddenly, voice high pitched as Coco's hands shook and she met Ernesto's threatening glare head on. "A drink might do us well, no? Let me--perdón, Señorita, let me--"

"You can threaten me," Coco said, ignoring Mercado as the writer tried to inch past her, "But I won't stop. My tíos could never make enough money to come here and confront you, but I am here now, and I won't be scared away. I won't stop until I have answers."

Ernesto’s breath had quickened. Rational thought was beginning to leave him. Her words may have been an empty promise, the power of a poor simple girl insignificant against Ernesto de la Cruz. Or her tears and infamous parentage could very well gain some momentum.

He wished she had perished with her parents. He wished he could be rid of her _now._ Plans formed in his mind, but each was shot down. 

He may have gotten away with the murder before, but if there was news that their daughter had died during Ernesto’s party, connections could be made. He couldn’t risk it. He would not have his name dragged through the dirt by the Riveras when they weren’t even alive to gloat about it. 

Forcing his breath to even out, he pushed all plans and murderous thoughts aside, and scoffed at the girl who still glared at him.

"Then you will grow old where you stand," he said dismissively. Mercado shuffled by him, and Ernesto turned to follow. But he paused and looked at Coco considerately. "Unlike your parents, unfortunately, no?" 

Her eyes widened in anger. Before she could reply, Ernesto turned away from her and stalked up to the writer, who was making a bee line right for the liquor cabinet.

"You," Ernesto hissed, grabbing Mercado's arm. "This is all your fault, idiota."

"Pero!" Mercado began, wincing in Ernesto's hold. "She is going to give us a good story! Can you imagine the new chapter? _De la Cruz met with the grieving daughter of his friend Héctor Rivera, and comforted her as she wept and wiped tears from her eyes--_ "

The fool! His writing was going to put Ernesto’s career in jeopardy. It had already forced him into a situation that was playing games with his mind--he had to focus, had to make her leave as soon as possible, had to keep his hands steady and make sure she left alive--and if any of the night’s conversation made it into his book, it would be a disaster.

"That's not what happened," Ernesto said, voice low. He could feel Coco's gaze on his back. It made his skin itch. "And it is not going to. This girl is going to give me trouble, and it's on you, Mercado." He paused, releasing the man, and added, "After this, you're fired."

Mercado's jaw dropped. His face paled and he stammered, "Pero, Ernesto, amigo, you can’t mean that--"

"Pour your drinks," Ernesto snapped. "And when you take her back to the ballroom, do not bother coming back."

Mercado was still gaping when Ernesto turned his back on him. 

He searched for the girl again, but she was no longer standing by the sofa. She had moved to the bookshelf near the door, her back to Ernesto, shoulders stiff. She ignored Ernesto as he came to stand near her, staring blankly at the old, rare books, arms crossed as she gripped her shawl in the warmth of the room.

What Ernesto wouldn't give to throw her out the window.

"Papá always used to tell me that Tío Ernesto was a good actor," she said suddenly. Ernesto narrowed his eyes. "You used to come out in the church plays when you were boys, and he said you were the best out of all the children. And you could make any tale believable to the adults to get out of trouble. He was right."

"No one will believe you, whatever you say," Ernesto said. She finally turned to him, and he coated his next words with sympathy. "No matter whether or not you have letters from your father. I'm only saving you trouble, señorita. If you say anything to anyone, you will be shunned as a liar and a fool."

"But it's the truth," she said. "The world may laugh at me, but Mamá and Papá will finally be at peace."

Ernesto wondered then if she had ever seen her parents' ghosts as he had.

If images of Imelda and Héctor Rivera roamed the little rooms of their home, faint and lost, the same way they had haunted his dreams in those earliest days.

"They will not rest knowing their daughter is a laughing stock," he said. "It is better for you to just walk away--"

"Señor," came Mercado's voice, and Ernesto scowled at the interruption. 

By his side, Mercado didn't meet his eyes. His shoulders were hunched, and his cheeks had flushed with shame. Ernesto would be forever grateful that he wouldn't have to deal with the man again. 

Mercado passed a shot glass of amber liquid into Ernesto's hand, and one into Coco's.

"Gracias," Coco said stiffly. Mercado nodded at her. She stared at the glass in her hands, and before Ernesto could speak, she said, "When Mamá gave the guitar to Papá, she had a message inscribed just behind the headstock."

Ernesto's fingers gripped the glass hard. He knew of the horrible inscription.

He'd painted over it the moment it noticed it years ago, hunched on his bed in a hotel room, hours before his first time alone on stage. 

"Your tíos tell such odd bedtime stories, no?" He asked. With her angry gaze on him, he raised the glass.

Had he been more patient, he would have proposed a toast. To home, or family, or success. Maybe even lies. 

But he wanted her out of his presence as soon as possible.

He tossed the drink back, savored the burn of the alcohol down his throat, and when he lowered the glass, he saw that Coco's was still full. She was glaring with such ferocity that Ernesto was reminded of Imelda glaring at him the last night she’d been alive.

"Where is the songbook?" She asked, voice thick with anger, and Ernesto snorted.

"You have their determination," Ernesto said, but it was not meant to be a compliment. If she was as tenacious as her parents, she would not leave him alone any time soon. "As for the book, I don't know. Rotting with his corpse, perhaps?"

Coco pursed her lips, and she moved as if to storm out of the room, but Ernesto held a hand up. Inspiration often came to him at the most opportune moments, and this was one of them. 

Coco paused, glaring, as he snapped his fingers at Mercado.

“Mercado,” he said, “I need you to make a note.”

Mercado frowned. “A note?”

“I will need something to remind me to send money to the Riveras when I can,” Ernesto said. “And something for the young lady for her trip home. This is truly what you’re after, no?” He said to Coco, reveling in her renewed anger. “Money?”

Coco didn't answer. Her hand holding the shot glass trembled, and angry tears gathered in her brown eyes.

For a moment, Ernesto remembered her as the tiny girl she had been, crying over a broken toy in Héctor's arms.

The Riveras would forever be pathetic, he supposed.

Mercado slowly took a small notebook from his coat pocket and held his pen ready. Ernesto waved his hand vaguely at Coco, who stared back in silence. “Let me give you something that properly insinuates what I think of your little stories--fifty pesos should be no trouble at all--”

The flash of fury in her eyes was his only warning.

She swung her hand, and the shotglass hit him between the eyes. Cold tequila spilled over his nose and gasping mouth and he stepped back, furious, pain throbbing where the glass had hit.

"I will have you dragged out, you--!"

But Coco was storming towards the door, wiping at her eyes, ignoring Ernesto's furious exclamation.

How dare she! The fool! Coming into his home, trying to steal his songs, attacking him and leaving as if he had no power over her.

He was Ernesto De la Cruz, and no one walked away from him.

Mercado said something harried, but Ernesto ignored him. Blinded by fury, all he could see was the girl leaving to tell the world his secrets, and stalked after her out the door.

An anger he hadn't felt in ages burned in his very center. He could feel his stomach churning with rage, and his breath was quick and shallow. Whatever the girl had planned, he would make certain she failed. She would never have his songs or his guitar, she would never have the fame she coveted from him!

The Rivera family would forever remain in his shadow, buried in the shame of their own failure. 

As he closed in on the girl, he realized he could smell the stench of the alcohol that had soaked into his collar. 

"You!" He yelled. Ahead, striding down the hall, Coco didn't look back. Ernesto could see the lights and hear the sounds of the still lively party at the end of the hall. Near the entrance, there was the figure of some man he didn't know waiting anxiously as Coco hurried forward.

"You will never find what you came here for!" Ernesto yelled, the burn in his middle growing stronger. He could feel his heart racing, sweat breaking out on his brow. Not since Héctor leaving had he been so furious. When the girl went to stand close to the stranger at the end of the hall, she turned to him and gestured sharply and stomped one foot in anger.

"I will never stop looking," she said, like a promise, and held her ground as Ernesto advanced on her.

The man she had gone to immediately stepped in front of her, the shock in his eyes giving way to a protective gleam as Ernesto stopped in his tracks.

Her fiancé. Some simple peasant from Santa Cecilia, just like her papá.

"Señor De la Cruz!" Mercado's breathless voice called behind him. Ignoring the idiot, Ernesto stepped up until he was a breath away from the man before him.

"Take your woman home," he growled. The burn was growing stronger. "She'll only put herself in danger here, do you understand?"

"Se-señor," the man said, spreading his arms protectively as Coco glared with watery eyes over his shoulder. "Are you threatening us?"

"De la Cruz," Mercado said, closer, stepping in front of Ernesto pleadingly. "Por favor, she's just a girl, let her--"

"Muévete!" Ernesto said, and threw his arm out to shove Mercado aside.

Something yanked hard at his gut.

With a choked gasp, he curled his arm around his middle and doubled over. Pain like nothing he'd ever known spread through his abdomen like fire, as if someone had poured burning coals down his throat. He clenched his jaw against a cry of pain, and breathed slowly and carefully, but the pain did not ebb.

It grew.

"Ernesto?" Mercado asked. "Señor, what--"

"I'm fine," Ernesto said through gritted teeth. The catered food must have disagreed with him. Or the champagne--

His heart skipped a beat when he smelled the stench of the tequila drying on his shirt.

"Mercado--" he gasped. Pain wrenched at his innards and he leaned against the wall. He could feel Coco and her fiance's gaze on him, but he didn't care. He gripped Mercado's arm, pulled him close, and struggled to speak as the pain became unbearable. "The tequila--the bottle--"

"The bottle?" Mercado asked, pathetically lost as Ernesto stared up at him with burning eyes. "Wh-what, what do you--"

"What bottle did you use, idiota!"

"The old one!" Mercado said, face twisting in anger. "I didn't think you would want me, an idiot, to waste any of your _fine_ liquors--"

The world tilted around him.

The bottle. 

A bottle fifteen years old, used only once long ago.

He'd never put it away. The vision of who he thought to be Imelda at the door had driven the bottle from his mind. The very bottle he'd used to rid himself of her. The bottle he had used so often to fend off memories of the Riveras, left to sit in plain view for a sulking writer to grab.

_How do you sleep, Ernesto?_

His head spun. He raised a shaking hand to cover his eyes and steady himself, but even then he could feel the world spinning around him and the ground tilting beneath him and his heart racing so fast it was painful.

An invisible fire burned it's way through him.

"Get me a doctor," he gasped, as his legs gave way beneath him. His vision darkened around the edges. Anything beyond reach was only dark shapes and shadows. He slid to the polished floor and Mercado slipped from his grasp. The pain was pulling, as if trying to eat him from within, and his vision was growing dark. Blood pounded in his ears.

"Is it still your stomach?" Mercado asked, still hopelessly confused. "You said earlier it was hurting--"

Fear and anger allowed for a last burst of strength and Ernesto shoved Mercado away, rasping, "Get me a doctor, pinche pendejo! Can you do nothing _right!"_

Rearing back from Ernesto's shout, Mercado huffed and dusted his hands on his pants and turned up his nose. "I thought I was fired, señor?"

Ernesto tried to snarl at him, but all that he could do was keen in pain and grasp at his stomach.

"It's De la Cruz!" Someone called, and Ernesto felt more than saw strangers crowding into the hall. Voices whispered-- _Is he doing one of his scenes? Oh how lovely, this night has been a treat! Look at him, he’s amazing, Dios mío_ \--but their words jumbled about in his mind, like echoes bouncing off far walls.

He hugged his arms close and lifted his head.

Two familiar faces watched him.

Imelda's wide eyes met his gaze. Next to her, pulling her close, Héctor looked horrified. They looked so young, so different, watching as he suffered, and when he reached one trembling hand towards them for help they stumbled back.

" _You,_ ," he gasped, anger pulsing through the pain, but he fell forward, and felt cool tile under his cheek. _Por favor--_

_It's not fair--_

He felt someone kneeling by his side, hands holding his face and pulling his eyelids open, but all he wanted to do was fall into the pit of darkness that awaited him, if only the pain would stop.

_Por favor. Lo siento. Help me. Don’t do this to me. I don’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve this. Por favor, save me--_

Air would not pass into his lungs. His chest grew tight. The world grew dark. Above him he saw the hazy image of Imelda through the bleakness around him--no, Coco, the girl was Coco, her young daughter, an orphan the moment her parents drank from Ernesto’s hand--watching, wide-eyed and silent as he fell further and further away from the lights.

He wanted to rage. He wanted to--he wanted--

The pain was gone. All the lights were extinguished. Even his thoughts and anger simmered away into nothing.

For a moment all he knew was darkness, until there was a flash of light, and a bridge of fluttering petals stretched out before him.

========================================================================

Weeks after the sudden death of Ernesto De la Cruz, his white guitar was taken down from its case.

In the courts, a fierce battle had been fought over the simple action, and whether or not the Riveras would be allowed to view it, to search for some inscription on the back.

They might not have been able to win the small battle if not for writer who came to their aid.

Luís Mercado had been De la Cruz's biographer. But after De la Cruz had died in the midst of his own party, and after the writer had been privy to some secret meeting beforehand, he'd jumped at the chance to pay for the Riveras' legal fees.

On the one condition that he would be the sole writer allowed to tell their tale.

"Yes," he wrote in the forward to his bestselling book on the case, "I was once acquaintances with Ernesto De la Cruz. And at the time, when I offered to help young Coco Rivera, there were some who said I'd betrayed the great musician. But my friends, can you blame me? When given the chance to write the story of the century? And besides, we all know how De la Cruz's story came to play out in the end, don't we? Let's go back to the beginning...."

More battles were still to be fought. De la Cruz’s sudden death was still under investigation. Poison and alcohol had been found in the autopsy, and guests that had been nearby during the horrible death had sworn they’d smelled tequila when Ernesto fell. Tales had also been told of the crowd witnessing De la Cruz acting odd during his party and quickly leaving it before it ever ended, almost stumbling in his rush to his room, alone. 

Immediately, his liquor cabinet had been seized for examination, every expensive bottle of liquor taken away, along with a dusty old bottle that had sat half empty on the bar. 

The Rivera girl’s claims had been laughed off at first, but when a small red notebook was found locked away in the drawer of De la Cruz’s roll top desk, questions had been asked. Every song De la Cruz had claimed to write was contained within, with some pages torn out but never found, and the handwriting had been too unlike his own flowing script. 

While his movies continued to play in theaters across the world, the handwritten songs in his hidden songbook were matched up with the letters of an old friend long dead.

And when doubts of Imelda Rivera’s crime against her husband surfaced and strong arguments were shared between both sides, and accusations were thrown at the last two people to speak with Ernesto before his death--one, his biographer, and the other the angry daughter of his old friends--the Riveras refused to back down. 

It was a blessing when a quiet hotel attendant stepped forward one day, having disappeared from the public eye for years, to speak hesitantly in court of a night long gone.

The family still had a long way to go.

But that day, at least, had been a win. 

When the pristine guitar was handed to the young Rivera, her hands trembled as she ran her fingers disbelievingly down the shined wood. Silently, she turned the guitar over, and rubbed her thumb against the back of the headstock.

White paint came away.

And hidden there, etched in fine script, was this short message:

_Para Héctor Rivera,_

_Mi querido, mi vida,_

_Para siempre y por siempre,_

_Imelda  
abril, 1917_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that ending wasn't too disappointing. Thanks for reading!


End file.
